Bob McCarty Writes

On the occasion of Memorial Day and in honor of all those who paid the ultimate price in service to their country, I decided to publish a series of war stories that hold a special value in my heart, because they were written by my father, Ted, who served as a low-ranking enlisted man in the U.S. Army during World War II. The stories appear in his 1992 autobiography, Some Events in One Life: Mine! Please know he captured these stories as a means to provide his children and theirs context for his participation in one of history’s most harrowing events, World War II, not for any commercial gain. This is part one of twelve.

Their forces, within the general area, were thought to consist of around 16,000 men and 70 tanks. This area was just north of a part of their industrial sector which was needed to produce the machinery of war. This was where their crack troops were located.

To the east of us lay a mostly flat terrain with some rolling, slightly higher locals. There were many marshy areas along with rivers draining toward the north. Sugar beets and cabbages were the predominate crops here. Coal mines were scattered over the land evidenced by their high slag piles. Rain in the region was much more abundant in the autumn and this held true in 1944. Main highways had been good but now were being beaten down by the constant use of heavy trucks and tanks. Secondary roads were often nearly impassable.

The citizens had left the frontline areas voluntarily or had been forced out by the German army. Before they left, many had been conscripted to build L-shaped foxholes, excavate trenches to be used as tank traps and fortify existing homes with heavy wooden timbers, concrete and whatever else the Nazi commanders thought necessary to delay or stop the Allied troops. The first floors of homes were first fortified by wooden beams. This was followed by pouring reinforced concrete 12 inches thick over the timbers. The damp, straw-littered, dirt floored basements served as bunkers for German soldiers and, later, Allied soldiers. During the rainy weather, the trenches and foxholes had turned into stagnant pools. Fields were now quagmires and foxholes were individual water traps waiting for victims who were seeking protection from the exploding armaments of war.

The 102nd Division was attached to the 30th Infantry Oct. 27. On Nov. 6, however, it was separated from the 30th and attached to the Second Armored Division. This armored division remained with the 102nd Infantry through much of the remainder of the war.

While attached to the 30th, our outfit, the 406th, began relieving other units that had been on the front lines for weeks or even months. The first to be relieved was the 117th Infantry near Hertzogenrath, Holland, but who were actually within the edge of Germany. On the way to our first relief mission, we walked from our box canyon hotel site to our newly-assigned front line position. We were walking single file through a rolling terrain and trying to stay off the skyline so as not to be easily seen. Apparently, the Germans did see us and fired a few artillery rounds at us. First, they bracketed us to get the range. As we walked along, we watched the shells leapfrog toward us and then overshoot our line of march. When the last shell went over I cringed because I expected the next to land amongst us. All went quiet and stayed that way. What a relief! They had established the range but for some unknown reason didn’t follow up with a barrage. Everyone just kept walking as though the shells did not pertain to us. They were of a different world, an alien world of which we were still to become acquainted. Denial seemed to be a necessity because, if you let yourself become too scared, you would literally live a life of pure hell and would go bananas while on the front. Later, some did just that and were released with a section eight, a mental discharge.

The 117th Infantry outfit had been at the front for 89 continuous days. We met the first of them as they were leaving the area. They were carrying their weapons etc. and we were coming into it with our own tools of war. The thing that made me remember them so well was that many of them were unshaven and their clothes were naturally, very dirty. They walked with blank stares and engaged in no small talk among themselves or with our men. After one or two greetings of “How are you doing?” met with absolutely no response, our men respected their privacy and did not try to communicate further. If one were to compare them to anything, it would have been to the war cartoons of the “zombie-like” soldiers drawn by cartoonist Bill Mauldin. This lack of response was due to their complete and utter exhaustion and, no doubt, other sad effects brought on by the war.

Their area of operations had been centered on a small German village, the name of which I do not recall – possibly Waurichen. Nearly all of the civilians had evacuated it. Our company – E Company – set up its command post in the basement of a house at the edge of the village and facing the enemy. The platoon officers took over nearby buildings. Riflemen occupied existing fox holes or dug new ones. Since I was the captain’s messenger, I was quartered in the company command post. Our regiment’s job was to keep watch and to hold our position in case the enemy should launch an attack.

One of the first daylight patrols was made by company C of the 406th, our sister company. The patrol was under the leadership of 2nd Lt. Albertus Cone, a platoon commander. I believe we were in Wurselen, Germany, at the time. Though fired upon, the patrol captured Germans. Upon trying to return to friendly lines, they again come under heavy fire, this time from enemy rifles, machine guns and mortars. The Americans turned and fired back, resulting in two Germans being killed and five more coming out of their “fraidy” holes with their hands above their heads. Lieutenant Cone’s only casualty was one man who was slightly wounded by an exploding mortar round.

A day or two after we arrived at the front, the morning dawn arrived bright and sunny. Everything was calm. Imagine our surprise when a beautiful, fair-skinned, blond German girl, 14 or 15 years old, in a bright yellow sundress came out and started flirting with some of our men. Of course, they were both surprised and amused at this gesture and, showing they were still boys and of the opposite gender, started laughing and trying to talk to her.

Our captain turned to see what had animated his men, and she caught his eye.

His face immediately turned beet-red and he quickly strode over and told one of our men who could speak German to tell her, “Get back to your house and don’t you ever come out again while we are here.”

Although she probably did not understand his words, she did understand the tone of his voiced displeasure. Even as the translation began, she had turned to run for home. The youngster may have just been acting out a 15-year-old’s idea of relief from the boredom of being shut up in the house due to the fighting in the area. A second possibility was she may have been sent to get some food for the family which had been trapped in their house for many days or – a more important reason – she was sent to get information concerning our outfit. At the time, the Germans called the Ninth Army “the Ghost Army” because they had very little information about us. All public information, even while still in the states, was kept to a minimum so as to confuse the enemy.

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My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part One

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Three

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Four

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Five

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Six

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Seven

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Eight

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Nine

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Ten

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Eleven

My Father’s War Stories From World War II — Part Twelve